The Callous Kind
by MechanicalFriend
Summary: John was finally getting to grips of the final stage of grief: acceptance. He had finally accepted the fact that his best friend was gone, dead, and never coming back. Suddenly, murders have been cropping up and Lestrade wants John's help, hoping the exposure of Sherlock's wit had brushed off onto him. While the investigation is under go, John starts to unwind the sickening truth.
1. Chapter one

Carlos Stevens was a dull man, with a dull job living in a dull flat room above the equally boring butchers on the street where old, run down shops lived then died. And his family run butchers shop was going to be one of them.  
The middle aged, overweight butcher had yet again thrown a reminder in the bin. He didn't need a bloody reminder that his shop was going to the dogs. Even though the family had ditched that business long ago, Carlos wanted to stay true to his grandfather's traditions. So, when his brothers' went and explored the greedy trade of the business man, Carlos spent night and day training to become a butcher. He aspired to become as good as his grandfather, who was one of the best in his day.

Carlos was working well into the night, the dim light of a rustic lamp stood on a wooden block as Edith Piaf's 'Non, Je ne regrette rien' played in the background, in symphony with the sharp and dense thuds of the cleaver upon wood. Carlos hummed along with the tune, keeping in time with the music as the cleaver sliced through another pork chop. He found it peaceful and almost emotional, but then again, Carlos was a man who possessed little emotion.  
As he hummed along, the sound of the shop bell went, which made the butcher frown. It was far past closing time. He turned his meaty head to the clock, which ticked slowly and almost painfully. Half past eleven. He gave a grunt with a frown and shuffled to the door frame, cleaver still in hand as he pushed through the beads, his small and beady eyes roaming the dark shop front.  
Nothing.  
The butcher sighed and placed the cleaver on the side, moving to the shop door and re-locking it. He swore he locked it after closing time...  
Carlos shook his head then shuffled back behind the counter, his hand out stretched and groping for the cleaver-  
Which wasn't there.  
Carlos swallowed thickly and looked around the dark and shadowy shop front.  
Panic overtook his already unhealthy heart as he scuffled over to the phone stand, tripping over his feet in terror as he felt unseen eyes pierce the back of bald head. He went to dial the emergency number, but the dull but even more terrifying sound of the never ending beep welcomed him. The line had been cut. The man stumbled back, his knuckles turning white as he clutched the phone with a deathly grip, his wide eyes searching the dark expanse again for any sign for the stranger who struck the fear into his heart.  
Just as he backed into the beaded doorway, an arm came out nowhere and wrapped around the bulbous neck, squeezing with a threatening pressure that made the man scramble at the arm, trying to move his neck to gasp for air, but the arm only tightened more without any trouble. The butcher was dragged back into his workshop and pushed into his chair. The man stared up in fear at the stranger, swallowing thickly.

"Who- who are you?" he spat out, glaring up at the tall figure, who towered over him, pressing a leather clad hand against the butcher's cheek, moving his head to the side.

"Manners, it can get you far." the voice drawled.

The butcher blinked in confusion, but it was short lived before a large object collided with the side of his face, knocking him out cold.

Once Carlos regained consciousness, he found he was still in the same position as before, however, he was firmly duct taped to the chair. He gave a few frantic pulls to try and free himself, but it was a no go.  
He looked around and saw he was still in his workshop. Hope started filling his head as he spied various carving knives not too far from where he was kept. If he could just move his way over there, then he could try and cut his way free.

"I wouldn't, if I was you."

The butcher looked up, his heart hammering again as he realised he wasn't alone. His abductor had his back to him and appeared to be sorting something out, the soft clank of metal objects upon another. The stranger seemed to be humming along to the music, which was Edith Piaf again. As she sang, the tall stranger with his head moving side to side to the music, almost seeming like he was lost within it.

Carlos trembled slightly, watching the tall shadow sort through something before straightening up.

"I doubt you'd remember, seeing as your brain capacity isn't that big, if you have one in there at all. However, I'll refresh your memory since I'm in such a...giving mood."

Carlos swallowed thickly, still watching with anxious eyes.

"You see, I came upon your...hovel of a shop a mere few days ago. I felt in the mood for something not in supermarkets and something with more...quality. So, while I was doing a job, I came across your shop. You see, I'm a fussy eater, and I have to have my steaks right otherwise I reckon it just ruins the meal." he started, the soft sound of steel upon steel followed the short silence. "Now, I saw your shop looked quite shabby, but I decided not to judge upon appearance, so I came in to see what I could acquire. Now, there was a young woman with a small child, do you remember her?"

Carlos frowned and looked down, his tiny mind working frantically. Did he remember her? It was a few days ago, and his memory wasn't that good these days. Slow images and fragments came back to him. Ah yes, the grovelling lady who wanted the price lowered on a steak slice. It wasn't his fault that she didn't have the right amount of money.

"Well, by that dim expression you are wearing, my guesses are that you do. Well, from what I observed, she was a few pennies out of pocket. You could tell by her clothes that she had worn the third day in a row that she didn't exactly have a high income, especially with a child." the man sighed, picking up a carving knife and holding it up to the light, squinting slightly before placing it back down. "I entered around about the time the woman was asking politely for the price to be lowered, just a few pounds so she could pay for it. By her desperation, it seemed she was having someone over important, someone she wanted to impress. But we won't go in depth with that. Going back to the incident, you was rather...rude. Instead, I gave her the money for the steak, but then I noticed you gave her the worst one in the batch. So, I bought a slice myself, satisfied you have given me a decent one, I went after the lady and swapped. See, good Samaritan."

Carlos frowned for a fraction before his eyes widened. It was him! The tall man who had sympathised the woman, making the butcher look like a fool. "We all have to put food on our tables, I couldn't lower the price." he said hastily, eyeing the second carving knife that was held up to the light.

"No, but the thing is, you heightened the price when she came in. She initially had the correct amount but you sensed her weakness and preyed on her like a hawk. Not very clever move, that can get you enemies."

The butcher swallowed and watched the tall stranger apprehensively.

"You see, once I got home I had to give my steak cut to my dog. He enjoyed it, needless to say of the terrible quality. I spent the night with a cup of tea instead, which displeased me. You ruined my night, which, is very rude." the intruder sighed heavily, turning to face the butcher who gave a tug at the tape. He walked forward to Carlos, picking up the carving knife with his gloved hand. He leaned forward, his lips twitched upwards as Carlos tried to keep his distance from him in a frantic but quite pathetic struggle.

"Edith Piaf's song was one of my mother's favourite songs. Do you know what she's singing about? The line 'Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien' means, 'No, I regret nothing'. Tell me Carlos, do you regret your rudeness to the young woman?" he asked quietly.

Carlos, who had been helplessly struggling at the duct tape, found his arrogance in the desperate time. "She should have had the money, not my problem." he hissed. The man raised his eyebrows before sighing and pressing the blade to the man's over sized stomach, ignoring his laboured breath as he did a perfect curve into the skin. He watched the blood start to bead on the surface before trickling down the stomach.

"One more chance," the shadow murmured, looking up to the pained butcher who seemed to be gasping as his eyes stung.

"You- You're nuts!" he gasped, struggling more frantically then ever.

Another heavy sigh then the blade was pressed to his stomach again, finishing the curve once more. He sat back slightly and looked at it with a cocked head. The perfect 's' was carved into the stomach of the whimpering man who had stopped writhing and led limp; the pain was getting too much.

"Do you regret it?" the torturer said calmly, like carving into men was a regular activity people did on a daily basis.

"Yes!" the butcher sobbed, his head bowing slightly as he eyed his stomach with wide and pained eyes.

"You see, your demons and omens follow you around. Mine still haunt me, but I'm more cleverer then you. I can shut them away, keep them out. But yours will always follow you. Well, they'll be short lived." the stranger said simply, standing and towering over the arrogant man. He lifted a gloved finger and lifted the man's chin so the wide eyes met his. "No one will be a victim of your fraud anymore." he said softly before gliding the knife across the butcher's thick neck, the scream turning into gurgling that slowly quietened as the shadow cleaned up his mess quietly and professionally.

After ten minutes, the room showed no sign of the killer, just the butcher sat still and bleeding in his chair, his small eyes wide with the horror that he had faced.

His murderer, however, showed no sign of distress or guilt. That night, he sat in his leather chair in front of a crackling fire with a book held open in his large pale hand, the bulldog led happily at his feet. The lone stranger didn't think of Carlos the butcher, how he was found two days later by his visiting brother with a promising business opportunity. He thought about a soldier, a man he once was acquainted with. He thought of him that night as the room dimmed down to a reddish glow, highlighting the male's features. He thought of the good doctor all night, quietly and


	2. Chapter two

Some few miles away, John Watson wasn't sleeping well. Horrible memories plagued his mind, tearing and pulling at the peaceful state he had fallen in as he slept in the armchair in front of the small television. It was that time of night where nothing decent was on, just all night poker and telly shopping. John had originally fallen asleep through a gripping episode of Casualty, which had made him appreciate the BBC just a bit more then the usual Antiques Roadshow or Songs of Praise. Some would argue that it couldn't of been that interesting if John had fallen asleep through it, but it wasn't his fault. He'd been avoiding sleep all week.

John's life had dramatically changed since the death of his best friend. He'd instantly left the case solving life and focused on his medical career, taking on full time instead of part. Sarah couldn't complain; John was a brilliant doctor and he was brilliant with the patients, despite what he had been through.

John's life went back to the quiet one that he had hated, nothing exciting, nothing new. He fell into a routine again: wake up, get ready, work then go home. And that would repeat everyday. It made John want to scream sometimes, rip at his hair and scratch at his skin. This wasn't the life he wanted, he didn't want a boring life full of country houses and white picket fences. Yes, John was a family man in ways, but he didn't want it yet. He still wanted the thrill, the danger and all the adrenaline thrown at him.

But, miracles didn't happen.

The sleepless doctor startled himself awake, the ghost of Sherlock's voice haunting his mind again before the silence swallowed it whole. He rubbed at his face then looked around the flat, sighing as he noted the deafening silence and the absence of any other person. Alone, once again.

He stood stiffly then shuffled to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water before retreating to his bed, tired in all senses. Tired of not sleeping, and tired because he wasn't sleeping. The doctor lazily pulled at his clothes until he was somewhat half dressed before he sloppily flopped onto the bed, sighing heavily as he hit the comfortable mattress. Maybe tonight he could get some sleep, maybe this would be a miracle night.

Alas, as previously stated, John didn't believe in miracles, and neither did he believe they happened.

The next morning, the bedraggled doctor stumbled into the practice, his eyes wide against the harsh cold wind that had accompanied John to work. He hastily closed the door and unzipped his coat as he shuffled to the kitchen, smiling slightly at Sarah, who was illegally chirpy on a Monday at six in the morning.

"You look like shit John." she said simply, taking a sip from her coffee as she turned the page of her newspaper.

"Thank you. I do try."

She rolled her eyes and shifted more comfortably in the chair before frowning in disgust at the paper. "Some people in this world are sick."

"That's why we work in the practice; to make them better." John pointed out, smirking into his glass of water.

"Less of the cheek John. I meant mentally." she sighed, shooting the man a disapproving look before pushing the paper towards him. John frowned and pulled it towards him.

" 'Local butcher found mutilated and dead in his own home.'' John read out loud. "Carlos Stevens, forty four, was found in the early hours of Sunday by his brother, cut up and dead. The victim had a neat 'S' carved into his stomach, which shows that the torturer was perfectionist, as well as cold blooded. This isn't the first time our brander had killed either. Over the years, more then twenty victims have been found with the neatly executed 'S' carved into them. No further news for the DI of The Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade.'" he finished, frowning at the article.

Sarah gave a shudder and pushed the rest of her toast away. "Makes you think, doesn't it? Who would be mad enough to do such a thing?"

John made a small noise to show that he was half listening, but the old John, the better John, side of him kicked in. His mind whirred, and a small voice in the back of his mind asked him, what would Sherlock do?

John put aside that thought and sighed, keeping the exciting stuff away in the tightly shut box. He wasn't part of that anymore, he couldn't be. He missed the thrill, the chase but he couldn't do it, not anymore.

After a rather boring day at the clinic, John tugged on his coat with a heavy sigh. He'd be lying if he said he enjoyed looking at snotty children and reassuring over worried mother's that their child didn't have ear cancer and it was just an infection. It was boring, mind numbingly boring.

John picked up his satchel and slung it over his shoulder before heading into the waiting room.

"John, have you called Mary?" Sarah asked, picking up the magazines and placing them on the table.

"Ah shit. I'll do it tonight." John said, frowning. Mary was Sarah's friend and John had seen her once or twice at one of Sarah's meals. She was attractive, and John did find himself staring at her a bit too often. But his luck with women had always put John off dating, so he had always watched from a distance.

"Oh please do, Mary is really interested in you!"

John smiled weakly then nodded. "I said I'll do it when I get back. I'll see you tomorrow." he sighed, hurrying out of the door before Sarah started the 'commitment talk'.

He had only got a few yards when his phone buzzed irritatingly in his pocket, making the doctor frown and shove his hand in his pocket, pulling it out.

"Hello?"

_"John, it's me."_

John blinked, surprised to hear Lestrade calling him at this time. Usually when Greg called him, it was a trip to the pub to watch the Rugby or just have a drink."Greg? What's up?"

_"Listen, I'm sure you've seen the papers. I need your help."_

"Greg, you know I'm not in that line of work anymore-"

_"Please. Only take a look."_

John chewed on his lip, his fingers curling in his palm. John knew this wouldn't make his night's any better if he started working in the old job. He wasn't Sherlock, the genius who could tell who it was by one glance. John might have picked up a few tricks, but that didn't mean he knew what he was doing. John was just the companion, the lackey, the doctor. But he never heard Greg sound this desperate, so he sighed.

"Fine."

_"Brilliant. I'll see you soon, yeah?"_

"Yeah, I'll be down now."

The line went dead and John stared at his phone, sighing heavily before hitching his satchel on his shoulder more while hailing a cab.

Greg owed him.


	3. Chapter three

John reached the Yard within ten minutes, still grumbling under his breath about wasted evenings and re-runs of Causality. He walked briskly up to the doors and saw Lestrade stood outside, seeming to have a crafty fag.

"Didn't know you smoked?" John asked aloud, smirking as the man dropped his cigarette in surprise.

"Jesus Christ!"

"It's just John, thanks though."

Greg rolled his eyes and stubbed out the burning ember. "Hilarious."

"So, what? Stressed out by the case?" John asked, pulling the coat closer to him in the harsh evening cold.

"Like you won't believe it. The press want more evidence, more facts, but we can't give them because we know nothing either." Greg sighed, holding the door open for John who thanked him and headed inside to the warmth.

"You have nothing? At all?"

"Not much. All we have is that the killer brands his victims and is pretty good at cleaning up after him." Greg said, stepping in the elevator with John. "In one case, the killer had cleaned the weapons he had used and led them out for us. Like he's was mocking us."

"He?"

"Yeah, we got evidence of the gender, which is a start. A man who was strangled to death in his home had large thumb prints on his neck. Too big for a female. But the crafty bugger wears gloves while he does the killing, so all we get is leather grooves, not finger prints." Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Looks like the killer knows who he's dealing with. If he has this extent of knowledge of what the police do and how evidence is bagged, then it's someone who was once, or still is, close with police or forensic relations." John pointed out.

Greg blinked at him then smirked. "So he did rub off on you then."

"He didn't. It just seemed obvious." John flushed slightly, looking down with a small frown.

"Alright, whatever you say. I'll show you the evidence and you can find what's 'obvious' from that."

John nodded and swallowed, still frowning. He was somewhat excited to be back in the field of sorts, but something nagged at his mind. He knew this wasn't going to end well, he just knew.

As the doctor and the DI poured over the evidence, John pointing out things that had been over looked, they both seemed to fail to notice that they were being watched.

The stranger, tall and silent was in the morgue with them. It amused him that even when John was spouting out clever deductions, he had failed to notice the killer was in the same room. Well, he couldn't blame him. He had disguised himself well, fake features and wig, all masked into a new face.

However, the tall stranger wanted to play with his doctor.

He had purposely left out the contact lenses after he had heard John head down the hall, leaving the brown lenses in the bathroom. He knew John, how he would react to the small things.

The fake pathologist moved to the metallic slab which housed the body, his eyes still on John's figure who was bent slightly over the body, examining the cut in brand. He had to admit, he was impressed with John's nerve. When he had still worked with the doctor, the ex soldier's stomach had still been weak, making him grimace at the bodies. Now John was examining without even a flinch.

"The last file, sir." he said, his accent tweaked into something more southern. He couldn't give himself away too much.

John looked up and thanked him, their eyes locking for a second before the doctor looked down before paling slightly, looking back up at the eyes that stared at him. Cold, hard and blue. The blue John had known so well as his best friend's.

"Excuse me sir, what is your name?" John asked, standing up straight.

"Andy McGee." the stranger replied, watching John. The doctor stared back before shaking his head and smiling weakly.

"Right, sorry. Thank you Andy."

The killer nodded and smiled slightly before turning and heading out of the door, the smile turning into a sickening smirk.

After a dull ride home, the smug man threw his scrubs out and changed into a pair of comfortable pyjamas accustom with a silk dressing gown. He was a man of luxuries, unashamed of it. He only could have the finest, after all.

He treated himself to some carbonara, sitting and eating in silence as he looked at the tabloids that led neatly to the side of him on the oak table. A particularly interesting story involving the Chancellor's daughter. He arched a arrogant eyebrow as he read on, taking another bite of his food. He did hate it when the newspapers, or the writers, preyed upon the weak. It was rude. His eyes glided down to the bottom of the article, reading the name of the journalist.

"Anna Cambers." he read aloud, cocking his head to the side. His bulldog, Gladstone, looked up to his master, watching him with his curious eyes.

"Its appears, Gladstone, I'm going back to the drawing board." he sighed, standing and taking his plate to the waste bin. He scrapped the remaining food, much to the bulldog's displeasure, in the bin then placed the plate in the sink. However, his master was merciful. The slender figure picked up a strip of bacon and placed it on the dog's plate before commanding him to sit.

The dog sat obediently.

His master let him have it, leading a pale hand down the dog's back before standing and taking the paper with him as he advanced up the stairs and into his study. He had planning to do.

Once John had finally made it home, the good doctor sank into his chair and rubbed his face, frowning slightly, his mind going over the man in the morgue. He had those eyes, just like Sherlock's. Cold blue ones that could show a vary of emotions, then nothing at all. But it couldn't be Sherlock, he was six feet under ground.

John shivered as he remembered those eyes before he shut his own, his head resting back.

"You'd like this case, Sherlock. It's confusing and annoying. Have you up for days, not eating or sleeping. You'd be sat in your armchair, plucking at that bloody violin of yours, not talking for days. I'd have to nag you at least three times a day to move, or drink something. Sometimes I'd have to remind you to breathe." John spoke aloud softly. "But you'd solve it. I know you would. You are much cleverer, and would do much better then I am. You're probably laughing at me right now, or shouting. Probably both." John smiled slightly, just picturing a frustrated Sherlock shouting about bootlaces or something. "Sorry mate." he sighed, opening his eyes and looking around before frowning sadly and standing, heading to his bed for a night of restless sleeping.


End file.
